


Voices trapped on the line

by nylie



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 02:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylie/pseuds/nylie
Summary: Five phone calls, one ring at the door.





	Voices trapped on the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikinglight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/gifts).



> HELLO, MEG. LOOK,i it's a fic in English ! Anyway, what I mean to say is, and I know I have already told you, but your support for my writing last year was invaluable, and I wanted to give you a tiny little thing back, something that you could actually read this time hahaha, and here we are, SURPRISE : ) I hope you like it <3;;;; 
> 
>  
> 
> General notes:  
> \- spoilers up to chapter 325 (specifically for 293).  
> \- thanks a lot to Kary for taking a look at this for me <3  
> \- Enjoy :)

**(1) the only furniture in the room**

When he moves in, the phone is already there, close to the entrance, the only thing laying on the empty floor. It’s an ominous thing, all black, strange and unfamiliar; a luxury he can’t really afford and yet, he has no regrets for.

Yasufumi stares at it as he places the box with his belongings down by its side. It looks new, its plastic surface shining under the morning light; it’s a bit intimidating. The apartment is only a few blocks away from his parents’ home so he doesn’t really have a use for it— _still_ , he places it by his futon side that night, hopefully wondering if it will ring and wake him up.

It doesn’t. Neither that night, nor the next, and as Yasufumi settles himself comfortably in, he almost forgets the phone is there at all. Except, he taps at it every morning during breakfast, he catches himself dialling up numbers he doesn’t know, he considers whether to make _that_ call or not... 

It’s been years since they first wrote their non-existent phone numbers on each other skins; numbers that made no sense, a childish play-pretend, as neither of them had phones then. Ukai doesn’t even have one now, but it had been nice; the idea that they could still reach each other after practice matches were over and they had to return to their separate schools fascinating. Staying in touch. It’d seemed almost magical under teen eyes.

They had made a ritual out of it. Yasufumi remembers the lingering touch of Ukai’s fingers as he inked his arm in random numbers, and the way he had wanted to kiss the clear patch of skin on Ukai’s wrist after he was done with his. He had bitten down his flushed cheeks, made a joke out of it, but the number had printed itself on him, unforgettable.

He dials Ukai’s number on one late afternoon, laying down on his futon with an empty glass of sake by his side.

It’s not exactly night yet, but the sky looks red behind the small window of the room and Yasufumi hopes it’s still considered a proper time back in rural Miyagi. He hears the tone ring twice, thrice, until a lovely female voice picks up. He swallows his pointless disappointment, since this is not Ukai’s home but that of a neighbour close by, and asks if it’d be possible to reach his friend.

“It’ll take a few minutes to get to his house and come back,” the lady tells him sounding apologetic, “is it an emergency? Maybe you’d like to call back in a few minutes, once he is already here?”

Yasufumi tastes his answer alongside the sake in his mouth, shakes his head and plays with the cord of the phone. Now, the disappointment sits heavy on his belly.

“Not an emergency, Obaasan, I’ll call in twenty minutes. Would that be enough time?”

“Sure. I’ll make sure he is here by then.”

Waiting feels a bit like stepping on his apartment for the first time again, a bit exhilarating and nerve-wracking and unfamiliar; a feeling he pushes into the deepest corners of his mind, reminding himself this is Ukai—they are always, at all times, reaching for each other. He covers his voice in calmness and drowns a glass of patience along his sake. He is not fifteen anymore, suddenly being attacked by Ukai’s promises and loud burning personality. This time, he is the one calling. Ukai’s name restless on the tip on his tongue, with a tiny bit of “ _I missed you_ ” echoing in it.

“What the hell?” This time it is Ukai who answers. He only lets it ring once, and then he is yelling directly into Yasufumi’s ear. “What the hell, Bakeneko?”

He sounds breathless, as if he ran there. Yasufumi can imagine him, the frown between his eyes, the length of his strides, and the pace of his breathing. He smiles, curls the phone’s cord a bit more around his finger.

“Well, hello to you too.”

He is smiling so much his face hurts, but as much as he tries to compose himself, he can’t. There’s something about Ukai that always makes him feel a tiny bit more awake, more present, more fired up.

“What the—did something happen? Is everything alright?” Ukai trips with the words and Yasufumi wonders if he is holding the tube hard enough for his fingers to become white, he sounds worried and the thought warms Yasufumi head to toe, the urgency and the care in his voice. It reminds him they are still close. They can still be close.

He shakes his head, letting a carefree laugh escape his lips, cutting Ukai’s worries short.

“I just got a new phone.”

“Oh,” the exclamation drops slowly through the line, almost like it takes it forever to travel from Miyagi back to Tokyo; their distance very much apparent in the silence that follows it, swallowing everything in its wake.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Thanks for calling?”

Yasufumi fills the space between them with an earthy laugh, one that he can feel on his belly, rumbling through the entire apartment, echoing in Miyagi in Ukai’s tough and sharp horselaugh. Yasufumi holds his stomach with one hand, clasping the phone closer to his ear, letting the sound mix and grow, familiar and comforting.

Outside, he can see the sky darkening, the lights of Tokyo turning slowly on; and in the emptiness of his room, he feels a bit less alone with Ukai’s voice by his side.

 

 

**(2) a bar in the corner of the street**

There’s a magazine Yasufumi buys one morning sitting in a corner on the floor. It feels almost alive; the magazine’s colourful cover shines warm and dark and powerful, capturing his attention even when he is not looking. He had been looking that morning when he bought it. He had recognized the school’s team uniform in an instant, pouring him with nostalgia, and before he could stop himself, he had picked it up, took it home and laid it down where it rests now—where it waits for days beside his phone, as he goes on with life as if its existence doesn’t rock the floor under his feet every time he dares a glance towards it.

He picks the magazine up two weeks before Golden Week on a whim, just to have something to do as he waits for his dinner to cook, and finds out it’s more than just nostalgia waiting inside. There’s a page long article talking about the Miyagi team, about its recent results, its promising future, its new coach—Yasufumi forgets dinner and sits down on the floor by his phone. He has no need to look up for Ukai’s number, he knows it by heart; it’s printed on his fingertips, like his name. This time he waits, impatience making its way through his veins, aware that this time his voice will be the one he hears when Ukai answers the call.

“When were you going to tell me?” he says as greeting, trying to sound just a tiny bit mad and failing miserably. He can feel the excitement, the relief and the expectation all mixing in his throat, beating loudly enough there’s no way Ukai can’t hear it.

“Bakeneko?”

There’s a beat of silence Yasufumi uses to breath in, breath out—

“Were you planning to go to Nationals all by yourself this time?” he says. He pretends to sound a bit scornful, let the betrayal leave his body behind, but he can hear the giddiness in his voice, so obvious that Ukai’s response is to laugh.

Yasufumi always loved to hear him laugh.

“Is that a challenge? Or are you going to tell me you aren’t planning on going?”

“You wish I’d make it that easy for you.”

“I’d be disappointed if you did.”

Yasufumi stares at the board he nailed to one of the room walls, there’s a schedule there he’s been working on, notes about his current students, lists of games to check, a Plan. It’s only his second year as Nekoma volleyball club’s coach, but he feels settled, organized, he knows what lays ahead the final line. They have a practice match coming up on Golden Week, right before training camp at school. He hums his thoughts into the line.

There’s a beat of silence, but he is sure Ukai can understand.

“I’ll defeat you this time.” Ukai’s voice, as usual, is strong and determined; it echoes through the line like a challenge from the past. “Just, you wait, Bakeneko.”

Yasufumi laughs, small and contained against the black speaker.

“You are aware we need to get to Nationals first, right? Is your team good enough?” he feels himself gleaming in the half lit room, Ukai always had that effect on him, making him feel far more alive than any person should.

Ukai’s offended snort over the line is all the signal he needs.

“You know…” Yasufumi starts cautious, tapping with one hand over the magazine, looking at Ukai’s words printed there, like a call on its own. “Do you have any plans for Golden week?”

“Are you asking me on a date? My wife would have to approve of it first…” Ukai’s teasing is easy, light as a feather, it makes him laugh with warmth; and before any uneasiness might settle in his stomach, as if he knows, Ukai goes on, “what do you have in mind?”

“We are holding a few practice games in Nekoma, against other Tokyo’s schools… thought you might be interested, we have a bit of extra budget… if your team is as good as this magazine says, might be worth the trip to Miyagi to check on it by myself…”

“A practice match you say, Nekoma against Karasuno…” Ukai ponders on the other side of the line. Yasufumi can picture him tapping his chin, a pensive look, a bit of a smirk already spreading on his lips, “it sounds promising.”

Yasufumi lets himself lay down on the floor, fingers dangling on the cord of his phone as he has seen his teen cousin do, feeling stupid and childish and every bit as content about it, drowning the sigh of relief behind his lips.

“Good. Good. I bet your kids could learn a thing or two…” he is laughing before Ukai can start a long rant about how good his own students are and how many times they will annihilate Nekoma when the moment comes.

“In the end, it’s at Nationals where it counts,” he says, and Yasufumi can imagine his smile, the glint of his eyes, as if they were side by side, sitting on the stadium aisles, saying, every time, once again: _I’ll beat you next time_. Silence never lasted long for them, and Yasufumi catches up quickly to Ukai’s voice when he starts talking again, lightness settling in the tube’s echo. “I’ll be at Tokyo next weekend, I have some family business to attend to, maybe we can catch up, go for drinks, figure up the details for the practice match, what do you say, Bakeneko?”

“It’s a date, then,” Yasufumi’s voice catches, it picks up on his chest, heart racing, an utter fool. He’s been playing with fire for so long, he knows how to catch himself before the burn.

“Might have to fight the wife over that.”

Ukai is laughing, like he tends to be, teasingly and warm and soft and as present as if they were indeed side by side, not a whole lengthy black line between their lives.

“Not worth to risk my life then,” he coughs a laugh, and Ukai’s indignant squeak increases the giddiness in his voice as he sets a place and time for them to meet up, making it hard to give him the correct instructions on how to get there.

When he hangs up, Yasufumi stays by the phone, counting seconds, feeling excited and content, and only the smell of his food burning makes him finally get up. 

 

 

**(3) tiny blue elephants on the wall**

The phone beats once, twice, thrice; an echo Yasufumi is familiar with. There’s some sort of magic he could never understand going back and forth between Tokyo and Miyagi, like a ribbon, it twists in his fingers as he plays with the phone cord, waiting, always waiting for the connection to be made.

When Ukai answers, pleasantries are exchanged, voices soft, comfortable, full of easiness; it’s been years now, the novelty has worn off, leaving nothing but a common space. They do this far more often than the used to. They did it only a few days ago, when Ukai had sincerely wished him luck for Nationals, tendrils of regret hanging down the phone line. Nekoma hadn’t advanced much, but they had gotten far enough—

“Heard you have a grandson now, congratulations!” he says before Ukai can direct their conversation over to games, and results, and the usual next time, next time, next time. Yasufumi is happy for him, he is, yet his voice, it chokes on the words, it chokes him, it—weighs the tube against his ear as if it was made of lead instead of black featherlike plastic. It’s been years since the cord went round and round and round against his neck.

There’s a beat of silence, a baby’s cry, so far far away on the line that he might be imagining it.

“Do you have spies now?” Ukai’s amusement is palpable, it surrounds him, voice travelling fast and clear, making him shiver, unknotting the cord, letting him breath. He is happy for him. He is. They have always been long distance friends, sharing as many bits and pieces of each other lives as they could, nothing else, nothing less. They are enough.

“A little bird told me.” Yasufumi stretches his legs, sitting on the sofa, phone dangling dangerously over the border of the table. He is supposed to change it soon, to one of the new shiny models on the stores. He likes this one, crow black.

“A little bird told you.” Ukai seems as curious as he expects him to be, a mix that probably sits comfortable in the inexistent space between his eyebrows as he frowns.

“A very very _very_ tiny bird,” Yasufumi cracks his back as he settles comfortably against the sofa, places the tube firm against his ear, plays with a smirk on his lips, enjoying the sensation of being the one in advantage this time. “A bit of a tiny annoying hawk, not a very nice bird if you ask me, might bite if you ask too much.”

“That old fool? Bet he wanted to peck at you.”

Yasufumi can see Ukai wink at him, full of amusement, delighted at the opportunity to have a laugh at Shiratorizawa’s coach’s expense. He can’t help but laugh, his body shaking, the sound echoing loudly in his small room, like it can’t be contained on the line that goes back to Miyagi, back to Ukai.

“Maybe. He never really liked me.” Washijou Tanji was a stubborn, square, tiny, bitter coach. Yasufumi had learned that much the first time they had faced each other at Nationals, their styles on opposite scales of the volleyball spectrum. Yasufumi wasn’t as daring as Ukai when it came to new techniques, but Washijou was the definition of unchanging and old-fashioned. Well, it worked for him; there wasn’t much to argue with the results.

“He never liked either of us.”

Yasufumi keeps laughing, like an infection it fills him with joy, lifts the weight on his shoulders, and lets the phone stay still and unmoving. Ukai’s own laugh is echoing on the other side, soft and warm and full of mirth as if they were still kids. When his lungs make him stop, cough making him tremble, he remembers they are not anymore.

“So… how is it?” Yasufumi asks, closing his eyes and dropping his head back. His shoulders have been really stiff since the last match. He is starting to feel old, what a shameful feel.

“How is what?” Ukai taps against the line, the sound is nothing but a soft interference against his ear, an old habit he’s gotten used to.

“Being a gramps, you are officially old now! Congratulations, old rag!”                   

“You… Bakeneko! You… you are the same age as me!” There’s a vein in Ukai’s forehead that tends to pop up whenever he is mad, annoyed, or insulted. Yasufumi enjoys poking at him when they meet for drinks just to see it blow up, like a tiny bomb he has the switch for. It must be there now; he knows Ukai’s probably touching it, hand rubbing over his skin, like if he was physically hurt.

Yasufumi feels light.

“Is that the only insult you could think of? Old age is really affecting your brain.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, next time I’ll make sure Washijou-san does bite you.”

“Serious threat, I see,” Yasufumi wrinkles his nose, pondering the thoughts inside his chest, honesty flows next in his words, “I thought next time I might see you instead.”

He can hear the moment Ukai breathes in, caught off guard for once. Yasufumi counts his victories both inside and outside the court with glee. Ukai scoffs, beaten.

“Of course,” he says, as determined as ever, and with a soft voice he adds: “Maybe I am getting old after all.”

“That you are. Yes.” Yasufumi keeps his joy inside as Ukai’s indignant pout makes its way to him through the line. “You know, don’t be too strict on the kid, you are supposed to spoil him.”

“HMFFF.”

“Always such a grump. Now a grumpy grandpa.”

Ukai laughs.

Yasufumi can almost feel it in his skin, the familiar touch of his voice, alive, so alive. Even after all this time, he still can feel his voice trapped on the echo of the phone, vibrating long after they cut the call.

 

 

**(4) not your face, but a mirror**

On the train back to Tokyo, Yasufumi sits behind the team, on his own, while Naoi-kun takes the front of the group; bless the kid. The boys are still high on adrenaline, yelling and chatting excitedly after a week of training camp and practice matches—Karasuno’s nothing but the strawberry on top of the cake. Yasufumi doesn’t blame them, there’s some magic hiding in that school’s veins, an inheritance Ukai Ikkei left behind, the beat of a heart Yasufumi knows a little too much, too well.

He lets his head rest on the window, his eyes’ mask on. It’s a nice little trip back to Tokyo, one he’s made enough times to know like the palm of his hand. A gorgeous unchanging landscape he had been eager to visit again. When Takeda-san had called, Ukai’s name had sounded like sweet honey to him, a temptation too big to say no to. They had done this so many times, so many times before, it didn’t hurt to try. He had known back then that Ukai hadn’t come back again, else it would have been him making the call. Yet, Takeda’s insistence and his own curiosity had gotten the best out of him. 

Last time he had seen Ukai Keishin, he had been nothing but a teen, only a little older than them when Yasufumi and Ukai had made their first challenge, their first promise. Last time he had seen Ukai’s grandson, he had been nothing more than a kid, trying hard at the game his grandfather had given his life to, trying hard to get where Ikkei hadn’t managed to. Now, he had proven himself to be very much the same copy Yasufumi had thought of him then. Thick eyebrows, a penchant for huge challenges he couldn’t keep up with, stubborn, with the same damn wrinkles on his forehead. A nostalgic colour photocopy of the boy he had once known.

_Next time. Next time. Next time_. Yasufumi thinks there’s no way out of history repeating itself.

He picks up the phone in his pocket before he can stop himself, before he is too asleep to make the call. It’s an old cell-phone model, he’s had it for a few years now, and it had taken him a while to get used to it, for the novelty to wear off. He bites his lip as he dials, numbers echoing alongside the sound of the tracks as the train leaves Miyagi behind, numbers imprinted on his phone, on the line, on the invisible cord that still joins their friendship together.

“Your grandson is as annoying as you, you old geezer,” he says as a greeting, loud and clear over the phone, barely a whisper incapable to compete with his students raised voices. “He definitely holds that surname high, stubborn as a mule, just like his grandpa. Too much talk, too.”

Ukai breathes a laugh, heavy with memories, severe as the hand he pressed on Keishin’s shoulder when he had been just another player sitting on the bench, like Yasufumi had been, eyes eager to follow Ukai’s voice. Now, Yasufumi had seen the weight still hanging there during their match.

“He is a good kid…” _They all are_ , he thinks, letting Kenma and Taketora-kun’s argument—Yasufumi can’t really tell what it’s really about—take over his hearing for a bit. Ukai’s only response is to hum, that man will admit to be wrong only once he is dead. Yasufumi continues on, unmoved. “When Karasuno’s adviser-san called me, I thought he was talking about you; for a second I thought you had been stupid enough not to call me yourself. I was wrong, you were just stupid enough not to show up.”

Ukai is a good man of short excuses, Yasufumi knows them all, and so, he waits, his breath a tickle that travels down his neck as he readjusts himself on his seat. Damn trains and their uncomfortable tiny seats.

“Doctor’s orders,” is what comes out of the speaker, after a few beats of lies Yasufumi pays no attention to. Behind his mask, Yasufumi presses his eyes tightly close, lets his breath dangle by the window pane, curving his fingers around the phone. He misses the damn phone cord sometimes.

“Once they catch you…”

“They never let you out.” Ukai finishes for him, it’s his own saying after all. Yasufumi can imagine the small smile on his lips, he can feel it on his eyelids, full of warmth. “Would have loved to pay a visit, heard you beat the shit out of my grandson.”

His voice is rough, strong, not a single hint of sickness as he talks. Yasufumi feels relief settling down on his chest, a small contained thing he tries not to linger on for too long.

“A team is far more than the sum of its parts, I’m sure you are aware of it. They are like a recently born bird, they still need to learn how to fly.”

“And Nekoma is a litter of cats ready to jump on their unsuspecting prey.”

“They’ll be friends.”

That tears a horselaugh that rumbles like the train out of Ukai, making Yasufumi shake all over, hand held over his own mouth, covering his amusement. He feels every bit as a child as his students bickering through the whole ride. He had seen himself in them, the immediate interest, the flames that fired their competition up, the echo of his friendship with Ukai, so long ago, on another lifetime. How much time ahead they had had.

“Maybe next time you can come and see them lose, just like every other time,” he teases, feeling tired in his bones, his grip on the phone almost non-existent, keeping it by his ear only by the strengths of their combined breaths.

“Maybe, maybe next time it’ll be the one, you old fart.”

Yasufumi is sure his laugh is loud enough to catch the attention of the team, but he shrinks himself in his seat, listening to Ukai’s never ending challenge like a lullaby.

 

 

**(5) call it a promise long overdue**

The phone rings that day, late at night. Yasufumi is barely peeling himself of his clothes and his sweat and his tiredness in the shower. The kids had dragged him to celebrate. “ _It’s Kuroo-san’s birthday, Nekomata-sensei_ ,” they had argued, convincingly, and as usual, he hadn’t been able to say no to them. Naoi-kun, bless the kid, had made sure Yaku got double checked before they had parted the stadium, and made sure all kids were returned home safe once their food was over. Now, back at his own apartment, he feels all his years aching in his bones, a reminder of why he had quit, back when Ukai had first done so.

He roughly ties a towel around his waist, leaving the bathroom door open as he walks toward the phone. That old black slick thing he can’t part ways with, it looks shiny in the artificial light, the cord all torn from use, the numbers fading away with calls from the past. It rings annoyingly high. Nobody uses that number anymore, Yasufumi is sure it now exists in a parallel dimension, abandoned, but not forgotten by the only one person that could be calling this late at night. That or those annoying sellers that keep popping up on his cell-phone now.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t be such an impatient old fool,” he tells the air, walking without rush, fuming under his breath for a bit. He drops himself on the couch, taking his time to settle himself around the cushions before picking up.

“Isn’t it past your sleep time?” he says before Ukai gets a chance to speak up.

“I’m not a baby.”

Getting under Ukai’s breath is something he’ll never get tired of. Yasufumi coughs a laugh, presses the tube hard against his ear. He wonders if Ukai knows his number by heart too, if he can recite it like a prayer, or a confession of sorts, they have always been good at dancing in the line.

“You pout like one, I can hear it from here.”

“Isn’t it too early to get cocky, Bakeneko?” he can hear Ukai lying down, phone tightly tucked under his ear, a bit of a yawn dangling on his voice, wrapped around Yasufumi’s old bones.

“So you already know…” he can’t help but yawn too, wrapping himself up in the blanket he usually leaves on his couch as the winter chill gets into his still wet skin. He is shivering but he doesn’t feel like moving one inch from this place. Stubborn, _that_ he is too.

“A little bird told me…” Ukai’s tone is teasing, full of fun and happiness and glee, filled with the expectations they have shared for so long, waiting for an opportunity to rise.

“Your grandson knows then…” Yasufumi makes himself small on the couch, trying to warm himself with that old blanket one of his nephews gave him a few years ago for his birthday. _For your aching bones_ , he had joked, and Yasufumi had refused to admit he felt like so already back then. “It’s nice that he told you.”

Ukai scoffs on the other side of the line. A short take of breath that makes Yasufumi’s eyes lit up.

“He did not,” Ukai says, indignant. “Can you believe the kid, can you believe the nerve he has?! Taught him everything he knows and he doesn’t even make one short call to his grandpa to let him know.”

Yasufumi can’t help but laugh at him. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel as cold anymore, and he moves the toes of his fingers around, playfully, feeling every inch of his body alive. After all this time, Ukai still has that kind of effect on him, the thrill of someone that could get him, that he could understand, partners in crime. Only, for them, crime was a ball flying over the net, ready to land on the other side.

“I surely hope it wasn’t Washijou-san, I know the man likes to mix himself where he is not wanted, but I bet he is still bitter about Karasuno beating his all mighty team.”

He can imagine Ukai shaking his head, roughly, amused.

“Not that kind of bird, a tiny crow—Chibi-chan called. Well, he messaged one of the neighbour kids, who—“

“Well, that does bring back memories. Still hating on technology, geezer?” He can hear Ukai cursing him under his breath on the other side of the line. Yasufumi pronounces the smile on his lips. He feels comfortable at this, at them, at all they have been up until now. “Did you teach him everything too?”

“Enough to be of trouble to you.” He sounds confident again, he always did, even after losing time after time and again, even after their dreams never came to pass. Maybe this time.

“Maybe this time he will.” Yasufumi arranges the blanket tightly around himself. He should probably get dressed soon, turn the heat on.

“Maybe.”

Silence settles between them, it tickles, comfortable and familiar, nothing to hear but their breaths, like when they’d get too tired after a match, and they’d sit by the side of the court, watching, listening, waiting. They have done so much waiting.

“I’ll be there,” Ukai’s voice is so small Yasufumi barely catches his words. They beat through the line. They beat on his chest.

Maybe this time.

“You’d better be”.

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

**(+1) a call at your door**

The weekend after nationals, Yasufumi hasn’t called Ukai yet. The phone mocks him from the other side of the room when he wakes up in the mornings, and its echo rings absently during his nights. Ukai hasn’t called him either. Yasufumi wonders if he is still in the hospital, if he is fine—the day of the game, Yasufumi had sent him his regards through Ukai’s grandson: _tell him I’ll be waiting for celebratory drinks once he gets out_ , he had said, laughing, shaking Ukai Keishin’s hand forcefully, as if it was Ikkei’s, his blood, his smile, his eyes looking back at him.

He wants to make the call, to hear Ukai’s laugh, to hear him gloat, to hear his happiness spill out of the speaker directly into his memories and his hands, but there’s an annoying lump in his throat that won’t let him. Calling him means it’s finally over, everything they had settled themselves to do, all these years of working together for the sole goal of facing each other again. Calling him means telling Ukai he misses him. Calling means telling him he wishes Ukai had been there, like he promised, like _they_ promised. Calling means telling him he wanted to shake his hand one last time. This one time.

Yasufumi shakes off these thoughts once and again through the week. It’s pointless; the warmth he feels, the memories from the game, the strength of his students, he takes those home. Still, he doesn’t make the call.

It’s the weekend after nationals, while he’s resting his feet up on the sofa, flipping through the channels of his TV without interest, when he hears the ring. It’s a high pitched sound that makes him frown, directs his eyes towards the phone by default. It takes him another shriek of the damn thing to realize it’s not the phone—not the slick black old thing he still only has for Ukai to use—but the annoying bell at his door. He feels a headache at the bridge of his nose waiting to happen.

“I’m coming!” he yells, scrambling to his feet slowly and awkwardly, putting on his slippers and turning down the TV. He hopes it’s not one of the neighbour kids playing him a prank, he doesn’t have any kind of candy to bribe them away. He pulls the zipper of his jacket high up to his neck as he reaches the door. Winter had been particularly strong this year, and he can feel a cough already settling itself around his lungs. The bell rings again. “I said I’m coming,” he mutters under his breath. Kids these days have no patience at all, he’ll have to have a talk with them.

He opens the door.

Words have no use.

Ukai stands on the other side of the threshold, scarf tight around his neck, his jacket hanging open on his chest, a huge smile on his lips, eyes full of sparks. Yasufumi thinks he suddenly looks incredible young under the afternoon glow. Silence hangs in the seconds, minutes, hours it takes any of them to move and all he can hear is the faint voices on the TV behind him, the beating of his own heart, the promises they made.

Ukai stretches his hand forward, waiting, waiting, like they always have. Yasufumi also feels young, like they are still teenagers, stupid and pretending that love is nothing more than the ball they throw in between them, the hold of their hands through the net. Yasufumi takes his hand, a handshake that echoes like their voices on the phone, a line far too long, flexible enough to connect their lives. Yasufumi shakes his hand and yanks Ukai in for a hug.

He knocks on Ukai’s back roughly with his other hand, hiding his face against his shoulder, feeling complete when Ukai puts a hand on his lower back, its presence strong and firm and very much here.

“It’s good to see you, old friend.”

Ukai laughs against his ear, a sound that makes his belly rumble, and makes them shake; a sound so alive he could never copy it through their sporadic calls through the phone.

“Likewise, Bakeneko,” _that_ makes Yasufumi laugh, eyes crinkling, delight travelling through his bones, that stupid, stupid nickname Ukai had never let go echoing between them as he pulls apart.

Yasufumi takes a good look at Ukai, their hands awkwardly untangling themselves where they kept their handshake between them. He looks thinner, and paler, his beard rougher than he remembers. All his years sitting on the frown that wrinkled his forehead every time Yasufumi messed up with him. He’s relaxed now, but the memories are still there, hanging off his skin.

Standing in front of him, Ukai feels as whole as the first time Yasufumi saw him standing on the court, determined, confident and handsome.

“You look worse than I was expecting” he says teasingly.

“Shut up,” Ukai grumbles, pursing his lips in a ridiculous pout, and crossing his arms in front of his chest, “hospital food is shit.”

Yasufumi stares, blinks, laughs at him.

“Of course it was.” Yasufumi feels drunk already, and they haven’t had not a glass of alcohol. He wonders if Ukai can even drink, if he is well enough, if—Ukai’s cheeks puff out, full of air, strength in every bone of his body despite how much thinner he looks. “What do you say if I make something for you then? There’s an old bottle of sake I’ve been wanting to open for a while.”

Ukai looks away, up to the sky, back to him, and shrugs the invitation off like it isn’t important. Like he didn’t just travel all the way from Miyagi to Tokyo to stand at his door and shake his hand. Like if his presence there wasn’t enough proof that a phone call wouldn’t have been enough.

That this they have shared for so long is for them to keep doing, once and all over again.

Yasufumi moves to the side to let him pass, inside his home, by the crow black phone—a perpetually connected call of their shared lives.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual kudos & comments are warmly welcomed <3
> 
> PS. I ship these two a lot, so, do come talk to me about them, byee,


End file.
